Going Home
by BritLitChick
Summary: Fourth in the OC Grace Hammer series. As Grace wraps up her training in London, Sherlock returns to 221B after continuing to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network abroad. They hope to spend some holiday time together, but Moriarty now has a grudge against Grace and has other ideas. Post-fall, pre-season 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Joie de Vivre**

2 Dec 2011 17:13

London?

2 Dec 2011 17:21

Building maint.

Up north with family all month

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson had adopted a new routine of avoiding the flat over the holidays. Too many memories, I suppose.

…

In the oncoming dusk, I had found a suitable spot to observe 221B unnoticed. It had been my intention to simply recapture my bearings and solidify tactics for the following day. I saw the usual neighbourhood flow of intermittent traffic and pedestrians. Nothing unusual or changed, really, which left me feeling certain my plans would be noticed by Mycroft only. However, I was determined to undermine even his attempts at spying.

After several minutes of pretending to casually text in an alcove, the second quarry of my stealthy review rounded the corner with her arms full of shopping. What suddenly made my breath catch wasn't the sight of her, but the disobedience of my heart rate. Unbidden, my pulse had quickened. Watching Grace unlock the heavy black door, enter and disappear from view was normal enough. But, upon the illumination of the second floor, it felt like a beckoning… an imperative invitation, which I could only deduce as my own yearning to come _home_.

* * *

Grace had been in London for several months now, and true to his word, Mycroft had enrolled her in covert operations training. I knew she had been given an interim posting inside the UK with one of my brother's lesser-known, but more-active, anti-terrorist divisions. I could only assume she had excelled in her education; otherwise he never would have placed her in the field so soon. It was a probation – a trial period – to allow for a proper assessment by both parties. Inevitably, she would need to inform Mycroft of her final decision, as to whether a career in espionage was truly the life she wished to lead. If she was deemed ready, a first official assignment would be authorized, which could take her anywhere. The abrupt realization occurred that it was high time to put in my requisition for a field partner.

So this morning, I found myself garbed in faded, stained denims and painter's cap, grabbing a well-used bucket and brushes out of the work van in front of Speedy's. I fell in behind the last man of a ragtag maintenance crew, keeping my shoulders hunched and face hidden, as we entered the ground floor. Walking into the hall, that same overwhelming sense of _home _took hold. I recognized _sentiment_, full on, but for once, I didn't actually care.

The crew clattered about with their equipment, evidently hired to refurbish the C flat. I mused that Mrs. Hudson really didn't need to go to the trouble, as I had no intention of allowing any other tenants to occupy my inevitable, soon-to-be-restored, perfect living arrangement. As the last of them entered the lower flat, I quickly picked Mrs. Hudson's lock and silently let myself in to A, her main floor abode. I'd been there often enough to know she wouldn't mind, not that I was planning on staying for long. Leaning gently against the old wood from inside her flat, I turned the knob and closed the door noiselessly. Grace descended to greet the crew and I could overhear her confirming their plans for the work. _I've missed her voice. Unanticipated. Interesting._

As she returned upstairs, I slipped out to the hallway again, hearing the upper door close. A knowing smirk started to slink across my expression with the absent sound of the latch locking. It seemed my accomplice was expecting me.

I ascended each step gingerly, trailing my fingertips along the familiar grass wallpaper, automatically maneuvering over the creaky tread on the seventh step. The scent of the old place felt right, slightly musty and well-used, but still warm and encompassing, like a blanket. It had been a lengthy absence and I was taken aback at the effort required to steady my anticipation.

A hand-written note was taped to the door. _I'll wait upstairs. Tap the ceiling when you're ready._

I heard faint shuffling sounds, as she settled into the chair in John's room upstairs. Grace was offering privacy for my temporary homecoming. Another unfamiliar sensation fluttered in my chest, alongside the increasing crowd of responses taking up residence. I named this one '_gratitude_' and eased open the door.

It was … almost exactly … the same. I recognized Mrs. Hudson's handiwork immediately, my papers tidied on the desk, only the most recent _Times_ on the table, and no more than a week's layer of dust evident. All else was achingly familiar. Every item was in its accustomed place, glowing in the reflected light of the warming fire in the grate. My eyes rapidly passed over each remembered item until they reached John's empty chair. _Damn_. I was forced to purse my lips and shut my eyes for a just moment. I had imagined seeing this image many times, so the vacancy was not unexpected. Rather, it was an unfortunate confirmation that John had not recovered enough from his PTSD attacks to be home. Or yet, to even learn that I was alive. Otherwise, things appeared just as they had been left, that morning long months ago. _When I had been wondering if I would ever return._

Quietly closing the door behind me, this time ensuring the lock was secure, I ventured further into the room. Not quite everything remained intact, I perceived, upon glancing into the kitchen. My equipment had been neatly boxed up and the central table was cleared and scrubbed clean. I was also positive that neither the refrigerator nor the microwave currently held any trace of my previous experiments. Still, the sight brought forth memories of work, tea, and conversations, and I was buoyed to be standing there again.

Although I'd earlier instructed myself not to, the urge to stand at the Baker Street window was irresistible. In three strides, I crossed the room to peer out for a few moments, keeping the sheers drawn. It wasn't the sight so much as the feeling of right-of-place that thrilled me, and I took in a long, steady breath before trusting myself to look down at the worn case lying closed on the side table. Finally, I let my fingers caress the battered shell, move to undo the latches, and raise the lid.

She was there, quiescent in the velvet lining, resting there just as she should be. The ache to snatch her up was unbearable, but I had already steeled my resolve with the knowledge that her voice would give away my presence in the flat, as surely as if a notice had been tacked over the brass numbers on the front door.

But then, I noticed… she had company. A small, tissue-wrapped packet lay tucked under her neck, between the pegs and body. Drawing it out, I removed the wrappings. Turning over the small rubber object, it took a moment for comprehension to dawn. _A practice mute_.

Placed snugly over the bridge, a mute prevents much of the vibrational energy of the strings from reaching the sound box, thus reducing the instrument's volume - so much so, that a person in the next room would have to strain to hear it. I had never deigned to own one, preferring instead to simply inform those living in close proximity that hearing a violin at any hour should be considered enjoyable. I'd rather forgotten mutes existed at all. But in this moment, no other object in the world could possibly have made a better gift.

Moving in front of the fireplace, I placed the mute and tightened the bow. Quick, light strokes of the strings told me that after the long period of disuse, Grace had known that I would prefer to bring the instrument back into tune myself, rather than have someone else intimately influence the delicate sound. It was a matter of some minutes before the strings settled into their readjusted tension and kept pitch, but the iterative process was meditative.

The surgery on my hand, arranged by Mycroft and performed by a first-class specialist in Switzerland, had been effective. Only a dull ache remained in the still-healing tissues, which was to be expected; I had been fortunate that although Moriarty's goon's bullet had caused excruciating pain, the actual damage it had done had been relatively minimal. In holding the bow, the same ease and range of motion became mine to wield, as before. It wasn't a surprise, considering my diligence in the physical therapy necessary to retrain my hand using borrowed instruments, but it was certainly liberating to confirm that I could resume playing my own instrument with little trouble.

The instrument and I slowly aligned, reaching a mutual moment to comfortably begin. I smiled in anticipation, as the perfect piece came to mind.

Reaching up, I tapped the light fixture with the tip of the bow, sending a small metallic vibration up to John's room. Then, after a settling breath, I allowed the first movement of Bach's violin concerto in A minor to course through my bow arm and surge through my fingertips. The joyful phrases danced easily through my grasp and the violin expressed my… words were not at all sufficient.

As I anticipated to the second, Grace appeared at the door, her expression coming alight as the subdued music reached her. She slipped in and simply stood, smiling appreciatively, to watch me play. Her face glowed in the tones from the fire, an attractive reflection of the woman I had come to appreciate. The smile was a rare sight, as she was more practiced at keeping her countenance stoic than revealing her emotions, but it looked wonderful on her. I concentrated on my phrasing and directed Bach's restrained exuberance toward her, bestowing my tribute for her consideration. But when I glanced back again to meet her eyes, my performance nearly faltered. The joy and intensity in her low-lidded stare was hardly all for the music. There was an incontrovertible suggestion of need, something that mirrored my own pleasure at seeing her again, I suddenly realized.

Closing my eyes, and with a silent apology to the composer, I concluded with a flourish on a major resolution.

Surprised, she laughed out loud, delighted with my unexpected jest. I permitted myself a moment of self-admiration at my success in inducing Grace's delight. It was clearly evident from her _joie de vivre_, emanating from her face and from the way she moved. To me, it seemed that she was expressing an inviting intent. Waiting only until I had placed my violin back into her velvet bed, Grace bound the few steps into my receptive arms.

Grace had a way of perceiving when a situation warranted vocal communication, or when it was best not to even try. She had honoured me one evening, long ago now in Dallas, when her silent appreciation for my music had cemented my budding interest in her. Later, after she joined me on the mission, much to my amazement, we had become close, and she had shown me that one's lips could be employed to enhance this silent communication. And that, in fact, expressing oneself in this manner was rather… good. I took to it in earnest.

It felt like we were silently sharing months of missed communication within just a few minutes. Grace eventually drew a little away, her sparkling blue eyes seeking mine.

"Kettle's just boiled," she said with a grin and a flick of her head towards the kitchen.

"Ah, the quintessential English welcome," I said, amused. "So I'd observed."

"I've turned it off, though."

"I saw that too."

"Just wanted to give you a choice," she teased.

We stared, unblinking, at each other, silently leaping through another twenty sentences of conversation. Our breaths were nearly in sync and her eyes were filled with apparent longing. Wondering if she could see the same in mine, I realized that she was waiting for me to tell her what I wanted.

"You chose my room, of course," I said.

To which she readily replied, "Yes, naturally," and then leapt up for me to catch her in my arms. A small part of me reflected that I probably should have chosen the tea, as it had been forever since I'd indulged in a good English cuppa. But, this… this enticement offered by Grace was rather more intriguing. Rough life on the ongoing mission had kept me in shape; her firm weight was no burden. I gathered her close and carried her down the hall with ease.

Her withering effect on my self-control was astonishing. Not since uni had I felt like this. Well, to be fair, Irene had provoked something that had lain dormant for years. But she had been playing a game and I'd known it. Or at least, I had perceived something was amiss.

Several months ago, Grace and I had experienced each other's intimate company at the end of our mission in Colombia. It had been unpremeditated, lacking in focus, and necessarily muted by the physical and mental exhaustion of our days-long struggle and the injury to my hand. Since then, I had taken time to reflect on our somewhat desperate dalliance, frequently wishing in hindsight that circumstances had allowed a more leisurely and comprehensive exploration. My mind kept returning to Colombia, and imagining Grace in Baker Street, I became distracted by subsequent contemplations of this moment. Truthfully, these thoughts had occupied many dull hours of my self-imposed exile, probably more than I would ever admit. And the visions had become all the more tantalizing, knowing she was already here, waiting.

However, even with these thoughts taking up residence in my mind, I'd somehow arrived without a strategy. This complex woman – who was capable of holding her own against me in conversation, who was skilled at absorbing great amounts of data, from martial arts to botany to medicine, and who had followed me into extreme danger and employed exemplary ability to bring us forth alive –had also been holding her own in my thoughts. Daily. I required relief from that constant distraction. Even making my way to London had not occurred soon enough to suit, and admittedly, I hadn't realized I had been seeking this reunion quite so greatly.

Grace reached up both hands to stroke her fingers through the curls at the base of my skull and worked their way down my neck, repeatedly, while her lips coaxed mine to become ever more pliant. It was all I could do not to crush her small frame to mine in the surge of an unmitigated need to take all I could.

Yet suddenly, I wavered. Did she desire that? Why it seemed critically important to be certain of her perspective, I hadn't the faintest clue. Would it be too forceful? I was too long away from this dance to know. _I need more data,_ I thought automatically. It was quite thrilling to comply with the task of collecting such data, but I wasn't prepared for how to best acquire it. Unthinking, I allowed a frustrated sigh to escape me mid-kiss.

"Sherlock…" she said breathlessly, not willing to move too far from my mouth. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Something is holding you back. Please tell me if this isn't what you want, if you're only doing this because you think ... "

I opened my eyes and pulled away just enough to focus. "Grace, I know very well what I want. Very much so. And this is most certainly it. I just am… a bit out of practice, and … well, I don't want to dissuade or disappoint." My working mind staggered a bit at hearing myself make this remarkable admission. Clearly, rationality had already lost control.

The intensity in her expression took on an air of empowerment. "Will you let me drive for once, then?"

I didn't hesitate. "Yes."

Grace led me to the small, high-backed chair and pushed me gently down. She then straddled my lap, facing me. My pulse skyrocketed instantly. "Close your eyes," she commanded softly, and I complied. "Hands down," she added, and I obeyed that too, albeit reluctantly.

Her fingertips began to wander over my face, smoothing my brow, running small slow circles at my temples, caressing eyelids, outlining cheekbones, and gently stroking desirous lips, tracing around the angular points at the top all the way around to glide over my chin and proceed down my neck.

My head tipped back involuntarily, as her lips joined her fingers in exploring my jawline, moving to one side and then the other, then lower, almost kneading the tension away with her voracious mouth.

She slowed, her lips poised close to my left ear. "Hands," she breathed. The reminder, wrapped in silken warmth, made my spine tingle. Unwillingly, I placed them lightly on her thighs again. Of course this position only made me more conscious of all the other possible destinations my fingers craved to explore.

She took her time moving around to my right side, then blew a hot, steady stream of air deliberately past my other ear. Unaccustomed to having my brain yanked off-line, I gasped, loudly. This urgent need for _Grace_ was a glowing, surging, pyroclastic flow, increasing in strength and becoming very, very dangerous.

"Do you like that?" she whispered. Oh, she could feel for herself very well that I did. She exhaled gently once again, radiating shimmering waves of heat.

That was it. Too many days and nights in close proximity to her on the mission, with just a taste of her at the very end, followed by weeks alone imagining this reunion, had my left my control in tatters. I shed it gladly. I grabbed both sides of her face and forced our mouths together greedily. Our heads roamed from side to side to pull on each other's lips, demanding, exploring, wanting. I reached around her waist and stood up, not breaking our connection in the kiss. Two steps carried us to the edge of the bed and I lowered her, almost in slow motion. As I pressed down, encasing the length of her whole body, she lifted up to meet me with a most lascivious moan.

Our movements took on a race-like quality. Her tongue danced well past my lips searching for mine. The sensation was wicked and overwhelming. I needed more. Entangling my tongue against hers was exquisite. There was no room for air, no space for time. I caressed her hair, her neck, her shoulders and arms. _Her_ hands, however, had other ideas, which completely redirected my attention. I had to stop momentarily, as another gasp and a low groan escaped from within the depths of my chest. Willingly, I abandoned the notion of further rational thought and gave myself over to blissful agony.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: My Own Idea**

I opened my eyes to the sight of insistent sunbeams, angling in from the window and limning Grace's hair golden at the edges. She lay on her side, facing me, holding a Mona Lisa expression - knowing, calm, and tranquil. _Content, for this moment, as am I._ Her sure gaze passed over my face to my neck and bare chest, seemingly intent on memorization of me. Judging from her methodic pace, she was enjoying the effort. I had actually already done the same, an hour ago while she was sleeping, brightening the colors of her portrait in my mind and bringing it into perfectly sharp focus again.

"Ring in sick," I suggested.

She chuckled softly, as she stretched, cat-like, and rolled to lie on her back. "I did have to call in a couple of weeks ago, for real," she replied. "Mycroft had been waiting for just that. He came over personally 'to check that I was all right', but he was really just looking for you." She turned her head to look at me with undisguised amusement. "Shall I call in, then, and effectively invite him over?"

"Ah, no," I said, emphasizing the negative with a slight grimace. Still, I was dissatisfied at the prospect of not having Grace to myself all day. So, a change of tactics was in order. "What have they been teaching you?"

"Oh, I have all sorts of new skills," her hand snaking mischievously under the covers to tickle, teasingly. Very, very few people knew where to gain a reaction that way, but trust Grace to have discovered it.

I writhed away, groaning in protest. "I highly doubt that's part of the curriculum."

Having twisted herself out of my potential reach of retribution, she rolled gracefully from the bed. As she moved, sunlight from the window flashed in my eyes and I was awarded only a brief glimpse before she was enveloped in one of my dressing gowns, shivering slightly as its silk threads draped their cool sheen over her frame.

"Toss me another one?" I requested, automatically adjusting the sheets for modesty, as she turned back toward me. Then I saw the empty hook on the back of the door.

"Hmm," she said, mirth playing around her lips. "Perhaps, when you texted me you were coming, the others were taken upstairs," she smirked. "Why the sudden shyness?" Her choice of words brought a certain fractious evening from our shared past into sharp recollection.

Soon after she had joined me on the mission, early in our relationship and while she had been striving to prove herself a useful working partner, I had taunted her mercilessly to test her mettle. On this particular occasion, I had suggested that her medical administrations embodied something beyond appropriate detachment, when she had had access to intimate portions of my physique. The intent had been to keep her mentally off-balance, in order to test her resolve. I had been purposely callous in accusing her of 'sudden shyness' when she had quickly corrected herself after a too-personal glance. I had succeeded in making our interaction very uncomfortable. However, she had then vehemently put me in my place in no uncertain terms. A smirk escaped the corners of my mouth at this remembrance, and I could see the same memory reflected in her now mischievous, knowing smile.

Leaning now against the doorframe with arms crossed, she tilted her head to one side and raised an expectant eyebrow. _Ah._ Grace wasn't one to carry a grudge, but she also wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to get a bit of her own back.

There was certainly no trace of detachment or inhibition on her part _now_. And I could hardly argue that, in light of our morning's activities, her frank, steady stare could be considered _inappropriate_. But if she meant to make me feel just a bit self-conscious as I had done to her months ago, somehow it was working.

Surprisingly, _I_ _was_ suddenly shy, underneath her keen, direct gaze. But this was at odds with what I had just allowed – no, welcomed even – her touch and closeness, hungrily encouraging her along the way. Modesty never being one of my strong suits, I knew that offering a view of my complete assets would be more than satisfactory to her eye. Yet, to simply throw back the sheet and arise in the bright morning light, while she was so intent on absorbing all she could see…. Although I had endured a lifetime of lustful glances from others, no one had ever so openly, so steadily looked at me the way she was doing now. _Why should that give me pause? Interesting._

However, my prolonged analysis lingered a moment too long and Grace abruptly backed off. "Oh, go on with you, then," she grinned, gesturing toward the bathroom. "You'll find fresh towels and your clothes are just as you left them." She then swept out with a flourish of silk, heading to the kitchen. Bemused and still lying covered, I listened to her movements - filling the kettle, taking out mugs and tea - while my thoughts darkened. I became acutely aware of an unwelcome sense of… _disappointment._ Why hadn't she stayed? She must have known a moment's longer wait would have overcome my reticence.

Turning petulant, I sat up, resolving to act more rapidly in future. Clearly, the habit of carefully guarding my personal space was going to require immediate revision, if I wanted to accommodate an ongoing relationship.

_Hmm._ I'd certainly acted quite timidly just now, even before she'd dared me to get out of bed. Why _had_ I moved the sheets to cover myself? I wondered why had it even occurred to me to _care_?

It had been a reflection of _her_ actions, I now saw. By putting on the only dressing gown so coyly, Grace had activated my self-conscious perception. And then, quite deliberately, she'd framed and posed her question, calling attention to my supposed shyness. Her surface expression had conveyed carnal interest, but under that, it had been … observant, almost calculating.

Intent on the rising intrigue, I closed my eyes and more carefully replayed what I had seen in her face. _OH!_ I exhaled, as I felt the mental _click_. Closely watching my indecision, Grace had timed her retreat perfectly. She had spoken an instant before I relented, thus setting my feet on this predetermined path, manipulating my thought processes.

_Clever_, I thought, falling back against the pillows and smiling in appreciation. And it was so like Grace, although this method was new. Characteristically, she'd given me a new idea to play with, a little preview of the lively exchanges I could expect when we were together. She'd absolutely intended to induce shyness and had directed my contemplations by slipping off to the kitchen at the right moment, giving me the time and space to anxiously attempt to deduce how she'd done it. _Delightful._

I felt myself settling back into the always-learning, constantly-surprising, never-boring mode that was _Being With Grace_. Ever since her first words to me at the Dallas airport, it had been a dyadic pleasure, capturing my mind's attention and invigorating my senses. Confirming my impression from Colombia, this morning's activities had shown that she was fully capable of inspiring matching delights of mind _and_ body. _God_, I thought, _this woman knows what I like._

…

Shortly after Grace left for the day's work, it occurred to me to fetch my other dressing gowns from John's room, if they were indeed there. I went upstairs to check, and saw that while she'd been sleeping in my bed downstairs, Grace was keeping her few clothes and personal items stored in a case along one wall, here in John's sparsely furnished room. Apparently her intent was to respectfully minimize her presence in the main areas of the flat, although she was here by Mycroft's invitation and my consent. My dressing gowns were there, folded neatly on the bed. A viola case lay on the desk. However, it was the object in the center of the room that immediately caught my attention.

A very elegant harp, about chest-high, stood there. It was made of maple, with a spruce soundboard, and it had graceful, spare, modern lines. I noted that there were manual sharping levers at the top of each nylon string, to expand the range of keys it could handle without retuning and to handle accidentals. A tag attached to the back indicated that it, like the viola, was owned by a local music shop. Rentals, then. Grace apparently had been using her off-work time well.

On the accompanying music stand, there was a printed score opened to a competently paraphrased version of a Telemann trio in A minor. Pencil marks indicated that Grace was interpreting the piano part into an appropriate arrangement for the harp. Examining it, I also noted that the score contained a featured violin part.

That evening, I returned shortly after Grace did, and an hour earlier than I'd told her to expect me. I didn't immediately venture inside 221B, however. Instead, I stood outside on the sidewalk and listened intently.

Standing two floors below John's room, I could hear the sounds of the harp drifting down to the street. Grace had opened the window to allow a flow of air, even though the day was somewhat chilly. She was playing traditional Christmas carols, although the arrangements and embellishments were creative and interesting. Apparently she knew them well, as she was executing them confidently. She was likely using them to warm up for continued work on the Telemann. I reflected that my previous discouraging conclusions regarding her musicianship might need to be reviewed in light of current evidence.

Long ago, I'd learned how to slip in the doors to 221B noiselessly, and how to ascend its steps silently. I carefully took up my violin and bow from the main room and quietly proceeded further upstairs to stand outside John's closed door. I heard her lightly plucking the strings as she put the harp in the right key in preparation for playing the Telemann. It was nearly time to make my presence known.

The first few measures of the Telemann, in unusual 3/2 time, are dramatic, particularly for the first violin. I lifted my instrument and prepared to surprise her by playing them.

An instant before I could move my bow, from beyond the door Grace said aloud, "Come on in, Sherlock."

Startled, I entered and strode to her side, curiosity written on my face. At my questioning look, she pointed to a small pencil mark on the music stand. It was aligned with the centerfold of the score. Watching me, she tapped the music, so that it now rested a centimeter to the left of its former position_. Ahhh._ When I'd replaced it on the stand after learning my part, I'd been careless.

Then she tipped her head toward the nearby window. I leaned past her to look out. I didn't normally enter John's room, and I'd never had occasion to look out from this window at this time of day. I saw now that from her perspective, the reflection from a large darkened second-floor window of the building opposite gave a good view of the sunset-lit street entrance to 221B. She'd seen me arrive, and stand outside, listening. She'd been able to precisely time her invitation for me to enter the room.

She'd laid a snare, and I'd walked right in. And despite the morning's lesson, I hadn't even seen it coming.

I turned back to Grace and bowed in a most deep, elegant respect, acknowledging her second little victory and expressing my compliments for pulling it off. She, in turn, inclined her head and bowed graciously from her seat at the harp. Then she placed her fingers on the strings and looked at me expectantly. I was pleased to lift my violin and to join her in a relatively simple but energetic and satisfying duet based on the Telemann.

We finished, but I launched into a repeat of the piece just because it was so delightful to play with her. It had been years since I'd played music with anyone else ... not since the short-lived chamber group at Cambridge, in fact. Grace picked up her part with the change to 4/4 time, jumping right in with the breakneck tempo I set. She had to play the repeated chords in the last few measures as quarter notes rather than eighths, but otherwise she kept up. She filled out the final chord and rolled it into an arpeggio going up the length of the harp, plucking the last set with an exaggerated flourish to match mine with the bow. We grinned at each other as the thirty-four strings of our two instruments rang into silence. She sat back in the chair to recover her breath and shake out her hands, and I lowered my violin.

"Well, that was fun," she said, her expression merry.

"Yes, indeed. Quite an interesting way you chose to invite me to join you, though," I observed. "Why didn't you just ask?"

She could tell that I was still a little disconcerted by how easily she had led me here with the mention of the dressing gowns. Then I'd trotted along, right on time, arriving with my violin in hand and having already learned the piece.

She laughed. "Because you would have said 'no', of course," she replied. "Musically, you think of yourself as a soloist, by choice and by habit, and you really didn't enjoy my viola piece in Portland, your only sample of how I play anything so far. Don't tell me, let me guess – you were always too haughty to join informal jam sessions after orchestra practice at school."

Actually, I'd only been invited the once, although I had declined quite firmly. "While 'haughty' would not be the word –"

"I thought so. But you know what you learned while we were out on the mission, Sherlock?" she said. I recognized that she was about to make one of her uncomfortably accurate points. I braced myself for a dose of truth from Grace.

She softened it with a smile. "Someone doesn't have to be as brilliant as you are, in the way that you are, in order to be interesting, worth working or playing with, being friends with, or valuing. Although I'm sure you've had innumerable opportunities, actually I'm only the second example of that you've recognized; John was of course the first."

"Hmm. I can think of at least one area in which I freely admit I could, and intend to, learn a thing or two from you," I said, eyebrows raised.

She tilted her head to one side. "You're making a joke out of it, so you don't have to answer me."

Of course I'd been able to recognize that about John, and about Grace too. She was perhaps unaware of my regard, in my own way, for Mrs. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. But she was saying that it was true in general. Coming from her, and knowing that John and the others would agree, perhaps it was a point worth considering more often.

"And what did _you_ learn while we were out on the mission, that comes into play here?" I said, giving her a half-smile, still trying to evade having to make a direct response.

She saw that she'd made her point, and let me get away with it. She laughed again. "Oh, that's easy, but you won't like it."

"Tell me."

"No, really, I guarantee you won't," she said, chuckling. "And it will make my life more difficult going forward to say."

I looked right at her, waiting.

"All right, just remember you asked to know," she said, giving in. "I knew I'd have to tell you eventually." She took a breath, and then started to explain. "It's just that I realized that you are like most men."

She'd said it that way to annoy, and I refused to be distracted from hearing the rest.

She continued. "In that, whenever I need to get you to do something you think you don't want to do, I just have to arrange it so that you believe it's your own idea." She looked meaningfully down at the violin I held.

"I assure you," I started, although assurance and everything resembling it was beginning to slip away. _Whenever?_

"I knew that about you, but I didn't really start applying it until after the first knife fight on the mission," she added, gesturing to my shoulder. "When not only did you not take my advice, you deliberately went against it, and against your own better judgment to boot. That's when it became important. I credit myself with having saved your life with it in Sacramento and on the Mexican border, and I think crossing the river in Tunisia could have been quite a lot worse, if you'd care to recall those incidents."

There was a pause. Then I said, "Thank you for the music. I look forward to more informal sessions." I strode for the door and made a hasty retreat. Downstairs, I uneasily began to review the events of the mission in a new light. Just as she wanted me to, I suppose.


End file.
